In My Daughter's Eyes
by BroadwayBaggins
Summary: What if things had gone another way? What if, years ago, a single tragedy had changed everything? A look at how Downton Abbey would have unfolded if Cora had died years before the events of the show. As a widower raising three daughters on his own, how is Robert Crawley to cope with the changes looming on the horizon for Downton and, more importantly, for his family?
1. Chapter 1

**April 2, 1912**

The skies over Downton Abbey were gray as slate and twice as heavy, reflecting the mood of nearly everyone inside. Rain had been threatening to fall since early that morning, but aside from a few ominous rumbles of thunder in the distance there had been no sign of any sort of storm on the horizon. Inside the house, however, was another matter entirely. An eerie calm seemed to have settled over the residents of Downton, one that appeared every month or so without fail. The servants were all walking on eggshells, careful not to say anything to any member of the family that might accidentally set them off. The young ladies had been dressed already and the car had been pulled around and was waiting for them at the top of the drive whenever they were ready, but the engine did nothing to muffle the murmuring voices of the servants as they gossiped among each other.

"_Do you think His Lordship will come along with them this time? He hasn't been these last couple of months. Always has an excuse, he does—either the weather won't hold or he's too busy or he decides to make a spur-of-the-moment visit to London a few days before. It's not right, that is…he should go with them."_

"_It might be too painful for him still. I don't blame him…"_

"_Too painful? It's been ten years, Gwen. You'd think he'd want to go after all this time—She was his wife, after all, he loved her."_

"_The poor girls…"_

By the time the three Crawley girls emerged from upstairs, long coats thrown over their dresses to protect them from the rain, the servants had already been scolded and dispersed by Mrs. Hughes, not wanting any of the ladies to hear the subject of their conversation. She smiled to them fondly and they smiled back, each of them clutching a small bouquet of hothouse flowers to take along with them as they always did, the pale purple lilacs standing out so starkly against the black silk of their gloves. Lady Mary nodded to Mrs. Hughes as she passed by, grateful for the woman's kindness. Most of the time Mary had a good relationship with the hired help—all of them did. Anna was her friend and Sybil was close to Gwen, and Carson and Mrs. Hughes had always been almost a second set of parents to the girls. However, today was different, and they all knew it. It was no secret that although the servants held the Crawley family with respect, there was one day when they could not resist speaking about their employers behind their backs: the day that the family went to visit Lady Grantham's grave.

Mrs. Hughes stood with her hands clasped in front of her, discreetly studying the girls as they waited to see if their father would be joining them. Lady Mary held her head up high as she had been trying to diligently to do ever since her mother's death ten years before. The poor child had been only ten years old then, old enough to realize that she had to begin to grow up and take care of her sisters herself. It had been an experience, watching the headstrong child she had known blossom before her eyes. Although Mary could still be selfish and willful, as all young girls could, she had grown gentle and more tender as well, taking Sybil under her wing and trying to be mother and sister to the youngest child at the same time. She and Lady Edith had never seen eye-to-eye, and if anything Lady Grantham's death had driven them even further apart, although over the years they had attempted to mend the many broken bridges between them. Mrs. Hughes could see a tear glistening in Lady Edith's eye now, the way Lord Grantham's middle daughter clutched her bouquet so tightly it looked as if she might accidently crumple some of the lilacs and she had to resist the urge to go over and put her arms around the poor girl. Such things would have been fine when she was younger, but now there were more rules than ever to follow. Finally, the housekeeper's eyes turned to Lady Sybil. The baby of the family, she had the fewest memories of her mother to cling to. Sometimes Mrs. Hughes wondered if she perhaps looked forward to these outings to the cemetery, if only for the chance to get that much closer to the mother she had never truly known. She and Mary looked the most like her, but each of the girls resembled Cora Crawley in some way…perhaps that was why Lord Grantham sometimes seemed so pained when he looked at them. Oh, he loved his daughters—there was not a doubt in anyone's mind about that. He was protective of them almost to a fault, always looking out for their welfare like a father should, but there was something more in the way that he treated them, as if he was trying to make up for the fact that they had lost their poor mother so young. She bit her lip and glanced up the stairs, wondering if he would choose to join them this time.

As if on cue, Sybil followed the housekeeper's gaze to the top of the steps. "Will Papa be coming with us?" she asked Mary, trying to hide the hope in her voice. Mary was the closest to their father of the three of them and the most likely to know. She saw her sister's brown eyes flicker to the grandfather clock in the corner before she answered, no doubt wondering what was taking him so long. "He didn't say," Mary said carefully, not wanting to crush her sister's hopes but not wanting to raise them too high either. "Perhaps—"

"He 's missed the last three visits," Edith interrupted, almost glowering up the stairs. "I see no reason to expect anything different today." She busied herself with straightening the flowers in her hand as Mary sighed quietly, not wanting to provoke another fight between her and her sister but knowing that there was one brewing already. She could feel Sybil's eyes on her as she turned to Edith, attempting to keep her voice as calm as possible as she tried to reason with Edith—an impossible task on the best of days, but Edith was always more difficult when she went to visit the grave.

"I wish you'd have more faith in him," she said simply. "Just because he's missed a few visits doesn't mean anything—"

Edith scoffed. "It does and you know it. He hasn't even made any effort at all in these last few months. It's as if he doesn't want to go see Mama anymore at all."

Mary could feel her temper rising as Mrs. Hughes slipped away, knowing when to bow out of private matters. "You can be such a child, do you realize that, Edith? As I recall, you were feeling ill last time and asked to stay behind. I don't recall anyone insinuating that _you_ didn't love Mama when you didn't come along!"

Edith's hazel eyes flashed in anger, and Mary bit her lip, regretting her words immediately. "No, but I'm sure you were all thinking it. You, perfect one who never misses a visit…" She went on, berating her eldest sister, deepening the divide between them on the very day that was supposed to bring them all together. Sybil took a breath, preparing to jump in and break them up as she always did. It was a burden that fell to her more often than not, but she had learned to accept it over the years. She liked to think it was what her mother would have wanted…

Before she had a chance, though, there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The three girls looked up just in time to see their father striding towards him in somber black, holding his top hat in his hands. "What's going on here?" he asked as he approached them. "Fighting again? And today of all days? Mary, Edith, I would have expected better of you…" Sybil could see his anger in the pull of his jaw, the subtle flash in his blue eyes as he turned to his eldest. "Really, Mary can't you put aside the endless feud with your sister for just one day? What would your mother think of you?!"

The girls jumped, for Robert had raised his voice without meaning to. His shout seemed to echo throughout the foyer, drowning out the clap of thunder that had preceded it. Robert seemed to realize what he had done instantly, for his face softened and a look of guilt replaced the frustration that had taken over his expression only a moment ago. Sybil saw Edith's eyes fill with tears once again, not even bothering to hide them this time. "I'm sorry, Papa," she said softly. "I…I didn't realize that you were coming…"

Robert sighed, seeming to age ten years in a matter of seconds. "I am," he replied gently, speaking as if he were afraid his daughters would run from him if he raised his voice again. "I am, and your grandmother is going to meet us there and then come back for dinner…Edith, girls, I know I haven't been very faithful to our little tradition lately, but…" His voice broke a little then, so subtly that Sybil thought at first she had imagined it. "But I do promise to try and do better now. It's what she would have wanted…" He looked into the eyes of his daughters, from Mary's warm brown to Sybil's blue, so much like Cora's that it almost stopped his heart just to look at her. "I promise…" Almost hesitantly, he offered his arms out to his daughters, trying to make amends for so much with just a single gesture. Edith was the first to move, falling into her father's embrace as she held back a sob. Sybil followed, feeling her father's strong arms envelop her and her sister and knowing that no place on earth could ever feel as safe as his embrace. It simply wasn't possible. He held them close for a long moment as Mary waited her turn. He turned and kissed them both on the top of their heads before releasing them and letting Mary come forward, hugging her tightly as well. "Oh, my girls," he said, too quiet for anyone besides Mary to hear. "She would be so proud of you…"

The moment he let go of Mary, the emotional moment passed. His eyes were free of any tears, and his voice had returned to its normal, almost businesslike manner. "Come along, my dears," he told them. "Let's go and see your Mama."


	2. Chapter 2

The entire family was silent on the ride to the cemetery, the only sounds the gentle rumble of the car's engine and the steady fall of the rain, which had finally begun in earnest. Edith kept her eyes trained on her lap, seated beside her father while Sybil and Mary exchanged nervous glances. Robert, every so often, would reach into his pocket for his watch even though it had only been minutes since he had last checked the time. The entire atmosphere was tensed, each and every one of them waiting for someone to speak but not wanting to be the one that said the first word. Sybil felt her palms begin to sweat inside her gloves, already itching to be out of that suffocating car. The cemetery might be dreadful, especially on a day like this, but at least it was in the open, and not filled with the awkwardness that was filling the car now. She was beginning to wonder if her father coming along with them had really been for the best after all.

It was Mary who finally broke the silence, her soft voice seeming to echo throughout the car. "It was good of you to come, Papa," she said, clearly trying to be diplomatic. Sybil almost smiled. Playing the peacemaker like this was usually her role, and seeing Mary trying to adopt it was almost comical. She reached over and took her older sister's hand, squeezing it gently for support, and Mary smiled in thanks.

Robert forced a pained smile of his own, slipping his watch back into his waistcoat pocket for what had to be the tenth time. "I thought it was high time I did," was all he said. "I…I feel like I've made her wait long enough." After that, the car fell silent once more, and Sybil focused solely on watching the raindrops gently slide down the windows as they drove on. It seemed fitting that it would rain today, she decided—as if the weather had decided to shed their tears for them so they would not have to.

By the time they pulled up to the cemetery the rain had slowed to a dull drizzle, but they pulled out umbrellas anyway as they one by one got out of the automobile. They arrived only moments before the Dowager Countess pulled up in her own car, stepping out briskly once her chauffeur had opened the door for her. He held her umbrella for her as she crossed to greet the girls. "Oh, my dears," she whispered, pulling each of them into her arms for a brief hug and a somewhat papery kiss on the cheek. The same was given to Robert, who held onto his mother for just a moment longer than the rest of them had, as if trying to draw strength from her. It was such a tender moment that Mary had to look away, knowing that if she allowed herself to dwell on it she would feel the bitter tinge of jealousy begin to fill her. However childishly, there was a part of her who couldn't help but think of how unfair it was that her father still had his mother, could still hug her and go to her for advice, while she would never be able to do the same again.

Robert pulled away and took the umbrella form the chauffeur, taking Violet's arm and beginning to escort her through the cemetery. Mary did the same with Sybil, while Edith was left to fend for herself. Mary was not quite ready to forgive her younger sister just yet, even though she knew it was what her family would have wanted her to do. Instead, she held her head high and ignored Edith entirely as they crossed the lumpy, muddied ground of the cemetery, pulling Sybil along with her. Her youngest sister stumbled in the thick mud and almost fell, accidentally kicking mud onto the back of her skirts. Mary quickly helped her right herself, and they walked on past ancient, crumbling gravestones interspersed with newer ones, marking the final resting places of those who, like her mother, were taken from the world far too early.

Finally, they came to Cora's grave. It stood apart from the others, not too far from an apple tree that in spring would fill with the most beautiful blossoms the girls had ever seen. They were just budding now, looking forlorn and waterlogged from the downpour that had begun on the trip over. The grave itself was immaculate, kept so by the groundskeeper that Robert paid specifically to maintain its upkeep. The stone was large but not overly ornate, adorned with only the inscription and a few carvings of flowers—roses, lilacs, and daisies, Cora's favorites, as per Robert's request. Sybil glanced up as they approached, her eyes flickering across the inscription that she had known by heart ever since she was six years old—the one that she knew in her heart, even with her limited memories of Cora, could never be enough to truly describe the woman her mother had been.

_Cora Anne Crawley_

_July 18__th__, 1868—February 13__th__, 1902_

_5__th__ Countess of Grantham_

_Beloved Daughter, Wife, and Mother_

_Rest in Peace_

"Hello, Mama," Sybil whispered.

Each of them had their own separate rituals for visiting the grave, constant and somewhat comforting. Violet would sigh and place her hand atop of the cold stone, never speaking a word although her pale blue eyes spoke volumes. Edith, if it was not too muddy, would kneel and clear a space in the grass for her bouquet to rest, never content with its placement until everything was just so. Mary would run her hand along the letters so painstakingly etched into the decade-old stone, every now and then opening her mouth to relay some beloved memory that would make all of them smile. All of them except Sybil, that is, who inevitably would only have the vaguest inkling of what they were talking about, to her endless frustration. She had been six years old when her mother died, and nothing her family told her would do anything to dissuade her from the notion that she should remember far more of Cora than she did. While Mary and Edith were lucky enough to have full, tangible memories, recalling everything from words that were spoken to the color that Cora was wearing during the fateful dinner party where Mary, deep in the throes of a temper tantrum, had threatened to run away unless her mother came to the nursery to read them a bedtime story, Sybil had only snippets. She could remember vague details, the warmth of her mother's embrace and the feeling of her lips on Sybil's forehead, the faintest whiff of the perfume she would always wear…and her smile. As long as she lived, Sybil hoped that her mother's smile, so warm and full of love whenever she looked at one of her girls. Sybil smiled herself as she crouched to lay her flowers down next to Edith's, feeling tears well in her eyes. _I miss you, Mama. I miss you every day…I wish I'd known you better. The others, they don't know how lucky they are to remember you as they do…_

Sybil glanced over her shoulder at her father, who stood apart from the others. He had taken off his top hat out of respect and now held it before him, his eyes fixed upon the ground. This was Robert's ritual each and every time he went to see Cora, hanging back until his daughters had finished paying their respects before he stepped forward to pay his. Sybil turned back, finding that the writing on the stone was now too blurry to make out. She blinked rapidly and a single tear slipped from her eyes. She watched it fall, landing at the bottom of the stone and staining it slightly darker than before. "I miss you," she whispered.

Sometimes, Sybil wasn't sure if it was her actual mother or the memory of her that she was truly mourning.

"She was taken far too soon," Violet said thickly, voicing what each and every one of them was thinking.

They stayed like that for some time, until the rain stopped and the sun began to poke its way through the gray clouds once again. Violet began to usher the girls away, knowing that it was Robert's turn to pay his respects to his late wife and that if she did not give him a little push, he would remain waiting behind them all day. "Come along, my dears," she said, taking Sybil's hand in hers and pulling her off. "Give your father a bit of privacy now. We'll just be waiting in the car…"

And just like that, Robert was left alone.

He gave a heavy sigh, looking down at the cold grey stone. Cora would have hated it, he knew—he had been saying that for years. He had tried to select what he thought she would have liked, but how was he to know something like that? It was too impersonal, too unfeeling for the woman who had never been very good at hiding her emotions from the people she cared about. She was passionate and caring, loyal and loving and fiercely protective of those dear to her. How could this slab of rock even attempt to do her justice?

Robert sighed again, placing his hand on the stone. "Hello, my dear," he whispered. He had always felt so ridiculous, speaking to a stone as if it were his wife, but somehow it was oddly comforting all the same. "I'm…I'm sorry I haven't…" He shook his head, almost rolling his eyes on himself. "Rubbish…I shouldn't have to apologize for that. If you were here you'd be telling me not to, wouldn't you? Of course you would…you would say it doesn't matter that I haven't been visiting, all that matters is that I'm here now…You were always so forgiving of me, weren't you, in the end..sometimes it took a while but you would always forgive me eventually…even when I didn't deserve it. And Cora, there were so many times I didn't deserve it…"

His voice broke then, and he spent several minutes trying to compose himself before he spoke again. Clearing his throat, he began, "The girls have been getting along better, recently…at least, they had been before this morning. I suppose I'm to blame for that. Sybil's been talking about going to school again. Mama and I have been trying to talk her out of it, but…what can I say, my dear? She's as determined as ever…that's part of the reason why I know she's your daughter. You can both be so stubborn when you want to be…Mary as well. She surprised me, though, hardly put up a fuss when I spoke to her about her engagement to Patrick…I suspect she knows its what's best for Downton." He cleared his throat again. "Nothing formal has been announced, not yet…the family knows, but that's it. I think that's how Mary wants it to be, at least for now. James and Patrick are off on holiday to New York next month, perhaps when they return we can get started on preparations…she's twenty years old now, it's nearly time for her to get settled. She's going to make a wonderful Countess of Grantham one day, truly…but it's hard to think of anyone taking your place. Nearly impossible, really…absolutely impossible. But she'll do well, I know that…she may not have had you for very long, but she learned from the best all the same. As for our Edith…" He gave a watery sort of chuckle. "We never do seem to talk about her, do we? Let's see…"

He went along telling her the latest news of the house, of the servants and the letters he had gotten recently from Rosamund in London and Martha in New York. It gave him a sense of peace, almost, speaking to his wife about the day-to-day activities of Downton as if she were still there to discuss it with him. Only when he had run out of things to say did he reach into the pocket of his waistcoat and bring out a single pink rose, slightly the worse for wear. He laid it carefully down on the bed of lilacs that his girls had left, the pale pink a welcome contrast to the sea of purple. He brushed a tear away and smiled faintly, lowering his voice to whisper one last thing before he took his leave. "Until next time, my dear," he breathed. "I will always love you…"

The rest of the day was uneventful. The family returned home feeling somewhat subdued but ultimately lighter as well, for visiting the grave was always a cathartic experience for them. Mary had Diamond saddled and went off on a ride by herself, feeling the need as she always did to be alone with her thoughts after paying her respects to her mother. Robert retreated into the library, and so it fell to Sybil and Edith to entertain their grandmother until dinner was served. The meal was a quiet affair, all of them still so aware of the hole in their lives that Cora seemed to have left behind even ten years later. Her absence still haunted the house more than any true ghost ever could.

Violet took her leave after the meal, and once again everyone was left to their own devices. It was around eleven o'clock when Robert strode into the library, surprised to find Sybil still dressed from dinner as she sat curled up in one of the armchairs. She held a framed picture in her hands and was studying it intently, and Robert cleared his throat gently to let his youngest know that he was there without startling her. "I thought you'd all gone to bed already," he said quietly.

"The others have," Sybil replied, letting the hand holding the photograph fall into her lap although she did not set it down. "I was just looking for a book to read before bed, I finished the one I was working on."

"Of course," Robert said, coming to stand in front of her. "Although, I'm afraid that doesn't look much like a book." His words were mild, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid his daughter would take offense at them.

Sybil's cheeks immediately began to turn a light pink, and she looked down at her lap sheepishly. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, making as if to get up and set the picture back where she had found it. "I didn't mean—"

"Calm down, my dear, it's all right," Robert was quick to say, soothing her before she got upset or began to think that she was in trouble. "I don't mind, Sybil. I don't mind at all. I'm…I'm happy that you wanted to look at pictures of your mother."

"I'm just glad I can," Sybil said quietly. Immediately after Cora's death Robert had ordered all photographs and portraits of her be put away, save a few of the larger ones that would have been a hassle to take down. Looking at her had still been too painful during those first few years. Later, though, when Sybil was around ten years old, he slowly allowed the photographs to filter back into the house. The one Sybil held was a favorite of his, taken when Sybil had been perhaps four years old. It was a family portrait of the Crawley women, Violet and Cora seated on one of the plush sofas with Mary in between them and Edith front of them on the floor. Sybil had nearly thrown a tantrum until Cora had allowed her to sit in her lap while the photograph was taken, and the picture depicted a triumphant grin on her face from getting exactly what she wanted. Violet's face was solemn, as it always was in pictures, but Cora's eyes were playful and her mouth had the faintest hint of a smile, almost as if she was proud of what Sybil had done. Robert came to stand next to Sybil and looked down at the photograph, nearly smiling as well. "Do you remember that day?" he asked quietly.

Sybil shook her head. "I…I almost do, but that's only because I've heard you and Mary tell the story so many times. I don't know if it's really me remembering what happened, or just me remembering you telling us how it went." She gave a little sigh. "So many of my memories are like that—I don't know if they're real or just me imagining all the stories you've told me over the years."

"Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of," Robert assured her. "You were so young then, Sybil, you can't be expected to remember everything."

"Well, I should remember _something,"_ Sybil grumbled. She set the frame back on the table and sighed, although her eyes remained locked onto Cora's behind the glass. "I miss her," she said after a moment.

"Of course you do, Sybil. We all do."

"I think about her all the time, Papa. I wonder…I wonder if she would have been proud of me, of what I've become. Do you think—"

"Sybil, of course she's proud of you!" Robert cut her off. "How could you think she wouldn't be? Sybul, darling, your mother loved you so much. If she could see you now…"

Robert never got to finish his sentence before Sybil jumped up and put her arms around him. He stood there, slightly taken aback, before he returned her embrace."You remind me so much of your mother," he whispered in her ear. "All of you do…Sybil, don't you ever think that she wouldn't be proud of you. Don't ever think that…" They stood like that for some time, father and daughter bound together by grief, until finally Sybil released him. Her eyes were misty, but she quickly blinked her tears away before her father could get a good look at them. "Thank you, Papa," she said, leaning up to place a small kiss on his cheek. "I should get to bed…"

"Ah, you never did get your book," Robert reminded her. He turned and walked over to the nearest set of shelves, rummaging around a bit before he found what he was looking for, a thick red volume with a drawing of four young girls stamped across the cover. It was slightly worn, and had clearly been well-loved long before he ever picked it up. A frayed piece of ribbon stuck out from between the pages for use as a bookmark, as if it had been set back on the shelves still unfinished. "Try this."

Sybil took it, wrinkling her nose just slightly when she saw the title. _"Little Women?" _she asked skeptically. "I tried to read it once, Papa…I couldn't get past the first few pages."

"It was your mother's favorite," her father replied gently. "This was her copy growing up. Your grandmother gave it to her when she was a little girl."

Sybil blinked in surprise, looking down at the book in her hands with newfound curiosity. "It was?" she asked eagerly. "I mean, this was her favorite book?"

Robert couldn't help but smile. "What do you think is the real reason that your sister's middle name is Josephine? It wasn't because of my frightful great-aunt, I can assure you. No, your mother adored this book. She read it every year, for a while, before life got too busy. Perhaps you ought to give it another try?"

Sybil nodded, flipping through the pages and gazing down at the illustrations. "Did you ever read it, Papa?" she asked.

"Indeed I did, years ago at your mother's recommendation. It may have been even before you were born. I quite enjoyed myself, too—I wasn't expecting to, you know. At the time, I admit I thought it would be useful in teaching me just how to raise up daughters of my own."

Sybil gave a giggle. "And did it, Papa? Did it teach you how to raise daughters?"

Her father chuckled and placed a hand on her shoulder as he shook his head. "I'm still learning."

**Author's Note: Thanks so much for your positive feedback, guys! I'm as excited as you to see just where this story goes. Sorry these first two chapters were sort of filler, but chapter 3 is when I start to put the events of the show into motion. A few quick notes…I sort of cheated on Cora's middle name because I couldn't find any reference to it, so just I used what I thought sounded pretty. Her date of birth, however, I took from the Downton wiki page. I used the behind the scenes picture of Sybil's grave in season 4 as a reference for what Cora's tombstone looks like, so look that up if you want more of a visual representation. I think that's about it…let me know what you think, and thank you so much for your enthusiasm and support!**


	3. Chapter 3

**April 10, 1912**

_I had the dream again last night._

_In it it's always the same. I'm reading _Little Women_ out in the garden, the copy that Papa gave me from the library…the one that used to belong to Mama. It's a warm day, clear and sunny, and when I look up to turn the page I see a flash of purple out of the corner of my eye, like someone has just turned the corner ahead of me. The next part of the dream always differs slightly, depending on my mood it seems. Sometimes I close my book right away and get up to investigate, following whoever it was who has come upon me in the garden. Other times I think nothing of it, returning to my reading until I hear the voice calling to me. Just my name each time, once or twice in a row, but somehow it has a more powerful effect on me in this dream than hearing my name ever could in the waking world. For it is only in my dreams that I would ever be able to hear such a voice. It's a voice I haven't heard in years, but I would still recognize it anywhere—I might have forgotten nearly everything else about her, but I know her voice. It's Mama._

_Once I realize that, I'm on my feet in an instant, running as fast as I can to follow her. Sometimes I fall and tear my stockings, as I used to do when I was a little girl at play on the grounds of Downton. I remember trying to hide the holes from the governess, knowing what a scolding I would receive from her if she ever found out that I had ruined yet another pair…how is it that I can remember such mundane things as that, but not the happy moments with Mama that I so crave? Other times I simply run, wanting nothing more than to catch up to her just so I can see her face and feel her hold me in her arms once again. I can hear her laughter ringing throughout the garden, which sometimes looks more like a maze, leading me further and further into the dark after her. She sounds so happy and carefree, as if none of the events of the last ten years ever happened, and I run as fast as I can to try and catch up with her. I never can. It's as if with every step I can feel her slipping further and further away from me. "Sybil," she calls to me, her voice echoing amongst the flowers. "Sybil, my darling, come and find me…I'm right here in the garden. Come find me!" Then she laughs again, as if we're simply playing a game of hide-and-seek as we did when we were children. "Sybil, my sweet girl…I'm right here…"_

_I can never find her before I wake up._

_Most nights, I wake up in tears, hating myself for being so close to Mama and yet still unable to reach her. It's as if my dreams are punishing me for having so few memories of her, the way that every step I take towards her seems to just take me farther away. I thought reading the book Papa gave me would help me connect with her, but I haven't touched it properly in days, for every sweet passage about the March sisters and their dear Marmee makes me want to weep for what I have lost. I don't think that's what Papa meant when he gave it to me, but I almost cannot bear to finish it. What sort of daughter does that make me if I cannot even connect properly to the book that my mother adored so much? I wish I could talk to Mary and Edith about it, but I know in my heart that they wouldn't understand. How could they? Mary was ten when Mama died, and Edith eight. They have proper memories of her, memories to me that are as disjointed and fleeting as images in a kaleidoscope—ever changing, depending on which way I look at it—or rather, who's telling the story. Telling them would only cause them to fuss over me…no, they could never understand, and for that I don't blame them. No, instead I trudge through the book a little more every day, taking breaks when the pain becomes too much to bear and trying not to compare the easy harmony of the March home with the way I and my sisters argue. I am rather enjoying reading about the character of Jo—I'm quite jealous that Mary was the one to be named for her, for she seems as much a role model to me as Elizabeth Bennet is for others! Taking on the responsibilities of the "man of the house" while her father is off at war, writing stories and reading novels all day without a second thought to whether or not people might judge her for it, wearing men's clothing and speaking her mind even when it gets her into trouble—How exciting it all seems to me! In fact, I would quite like to have read a book simply recounting Josephine's adventures…if a girl could do all that in Massachussetts during America's civil war, why then are we still denied the same rights nearly fifty years later? I suppose that is the beauty of fiction, and the fact that Marmee never once told her daughters that she wanted them to marry for anything but love…_

_Speaking of marrying for love, Granny is bringing a guest for dinner tonight. She's being dreadfully mysterious about it, and won't say a word about who it is. Everyone has their own suspicions, but everyone seems to preoccupied with the news of the successful launch of the ship _Titanic's_ maiden voyage to properly speculate on just who is coming to dinner. I would much rather talk about the launch of the unsinkable ship myself, but Granny's unknown dinner guest makes me uneasy. I can only hope it's not that horrible Larry Grey—it would be just like her to refuse to tell me if it was him, knowing just how I would react if I knew it was him. I stand by what I said at the garden party, if he didn't want ice cream all over that new suit of his then he shouldn't have insulted Gwen when she was standing right in front of him the way that he did…_

_Still, I can't help but feel I'm being a bit too hard on my grandmother. Perhaps, in this one instance, she deserves to be given the benefit of the doubt. It's not her fault that whenever a guest comes to dine at Downton, there is usually an ulterior motive in mind…_

Sybil jumped as there came a knock at the door, and she quickly closed her diary before placing it safely in the drawer of her writing desk. She stood up and smoothed her skirts, making sure there were no ink stains marring the fabric, before she spoke. In many ways she knew she was already enough of an embarrassment to her family, making sure she looked presentable seemed the least she could do for the moment. "My lady?" came Gwen's familiar voice, and Sybil relaxed. She smiled softly, settling herself back down into her chair. "I'm in here, Gwen. Come in…"

"I can't imagine why Granny would want to be so secretive about all this," Mary said several hours later as she sat at her vanity, trying to discern which pair of earrings would be best suited to the new crimson gown she had chosen to wear for dinner that night. Edith sat behind her on the bed, idly flipping through a magazine while Anna was busy doing up the buttons on the back of Sybil's dress. "It isn't like her at all. Who could she possibly be bringing that's so awful she doesn't even want to give us fair warning first?"

"Don't be like that," Sybil said, but her tone did not match her words. " We don't know they're going to be horrible."

In the mirror's reflection, Mary gave Sybil a withering look. "Sybil, it's a guest of Granny's. Chances are we'll find something to dislike about him—"

"What makes you so sure?" Edith piped up, acknowledging Mary for the first time. Apparently they had gotten over whatever their latest squabble had been, although Sybil would have bet money that the ceasefire between them would not last. "They might be perfectly kind…good-looking, sweet…"

"What makes you so sure it's a man?" Sybil asked curiously?

Mary hid a smile. "Why, of course it's a man, dear," she said indulgently, as if Sybil were five years old. She tried her best not to take offense. "Why else would Granny bring someone here? It's another one of her attemps to find husbands for us. She never tires of that, you know. I rather think it's her favorite hobby. I suppose Edith might be right, though…she may have actually brought us a catch today." She rested her chin on her upturned hand, her eyes growing far away as she tried to picture their dinner guest. "He could be perfectly agreeable—handsome, well-read, titled and rich, of course…"

"What difference does it make to you?" Edith asked petulantly. "You're already spoken for, in case you've forgotten. If she's brought a gentleman over for anyone, it would be for me and Sybil—and since Sybil's too young, he's likely to be for me. After all, I'll be making my debut in a few months." Edith's eyes shone at the prospect of her own upcoming Season, something she had been dreaming of—and envying Mary for, if she was being brutally honest with herself—since Mary had made her debut two years before. "Stop thinking of yourself for a change and let us have a bit of fun. You're to marry Patrick, it's already been decided. You should just accept it-you're already taken.

"Not officially," Mary said flippantly, as if they were discussing the weather. "There isn't an engagement ring on my finger just yet. There's no harm in looking, you know…call it shopping around, if you like, making sure you examine all the possibilities before you settle on the one that you want." She grinned as she reached for her gloves and began to pull them on. "After all, you wouldn't stop going into bookshops altogether just because you had declared one book your favorite, would you?"

Edith looked appalled. "What a horrid thing to say!" she cried out. "How can you possibly be so ungrateful? Patrick is very fond of you—he'd make an excellent husband…" Her eyes darted down to her lap, as if she realized she had accidentally said too much. "And you're wrong, you know, with that ridiculous bookshop metaphor," she all but hissed. "I might…if I had found the right book."

Mary's eyes flashed, and Sybil knew she had to jump in before another fight escalated. "You're both overreacting dreadfully," she said as calmly as she could muster. "We _don't_ know if it's a man and we _don't_ know what he'll be like, so there's no point in fighting over it now. Besides, we don't need to worry. Even if Granny did bring a man for us to meet, Papa would never force us into a marriage with someone we didn't care for…" She watched Mary and Edith exchange a glance, and her resolve wavered just a bit. "Wouldn't he?"

"No," Mary assured her, quickly shaking her head. "No, of course he wouldn't, not if we truly objected. You know he wants us to be happy, Sybil…he wants that more than anything. Granny, on the other hand…she loves us, same as Papa does, but she just wants us settled. You know what she's always saying, how love is something that should develop within a marriage over time and all that…" Mary trailed off, realizing the hypocrisy of her statement when she was herself to a man that she did not love, a marriage of convenience for everyone involved. She sighed and shook her head, her eyes meeting Sybil's in the mirror. "I have a feeling getting the three of us down the aisle is going to result in a battle between the two of them like we've never seen before…and I only wish I knew for sure just who would come out victorious in the end."

As it turned out, none of their predictions about their grandmother's dinner guest turned out to be entirely true. Except, perhaps, for Sybil's.

Lady Clara Louisa Belcourt was the youngest child and only daughter of Lord George Belcourt, the Viscount of Torrington, and his wife Lady Althea Belcourt. The family was an old and well-respected one, and Violet had been well-acquainted with the elder Lady Belcourt for years, for before her marriage she had been a Bellasis. Lady Clara Belcourt had spent the last several years living abroad on the Continent with one of her aunts, and had only recently returned to England for an extended stay with her Bellasis cousins before venturing home to the family seat in Hampshire. The moment Violet had heard of the lady's arrival she had begun planning. She had given her son far more than the appropriate amount of time to grieve for Cora's loss, but he had refused every single one of the many eligible young women she had invited to dine with them in the last few years. She could only hope that Lady Belcourt would prove more successful. After all, time was running out, or so it seemed to the Dowager Countess. Within a few years all three of the girls would be either out in society or approaching their seasons. They needed a mother more than ever, in Violet's mind, and more importantly the estate needed a countess to fill the place Cora had left behind. Mary had done the best she could in her mother's stead, but she should be preparing for her own marriage now. When she herself was settled with Patrick and had become the Countess of Grantham in her own right, she could return to helping manage the estate as she did now. For the time being, though, it was time for someone else to shoulder those responsibilities. Violet could only hope that Lady Belcourt could be the one.

She was a petite, pleasant-looking girl of twenty-six years, with curly auburn hair and a complexion nearly as pale as Mary's. She was polite and soft-spoken, almost bordering on shy, and perhaps it was for that reason that Violet felt as if this dinner was already a disaster. The girls eyed her with a mix of curiosity and horror, each of them wondering what their grandmother had been thinking by bringing a suitor for their father who was closer to Mary's age than to Robert's to dine with them. Every few minutes one of them would politely ask Lady Belcourt a question which she would endeavor to answer, and then the small talk would once again dissipate until the only sound was that of silverware delicately hitting the plates. The girls would then exchange glances while Lady Belcourt blushed into her soup, looking up at Robert every now and then. He attempted to engage her in conversation as well, but that did not do much to diffuse the obvious tension in the room. When he was certain no one was looking he gave his mother a hard look, as if asking her what gave her the right to parade women through his house like this hoping that one of them might eventually catch his eye. She tactfully pretended not to notice.

The silence was driving Sybil mad, and she spoke up as Thomas and William began to serve the first course. "I assume you have heard about the launching of the _Titanic,_ Lady Belcourt?" she asked politely, earning an encouraging smile from her grandmother that she tried her best to ignore. "Isn't it exciting?"

Lady Belcourt smiled. "Yes indeed, Lady Sybil, very exciting indeed. As a matter of fact, I know two of the passengers on board—one of my cousins on my father's side and his wife. I don't know his wife terribly well, for they married while I was abroad, but from what my mother wrote to me, my cousin Malcolm was very eager to be the first to travel aboard the unsinkable ship. It's quite amazing what today's technology can do in this remarkable age, but I'm afraid I wouldn't fancy a trip to America very much—"

"And what's wrong with America?" Mary asked immediately. Her tone was nonchalant, but a whiff of her usual temper lurked beneath the surface, ready to strike if Lady Belcourt dared to insult the country of her mother's birth.

"Oh, nothing!" Lady Belcourt said quickly. "I'm just not very fond of overseas crossings. The passage back to England from France was bad enough, I don't think I could ever endure a trip across the Atlantic. If I didn't succumb to seasickness first, I'm sure the boredom would be the death of me. There's only so much time I can spend reading or drawing on the deck before I begin to go absolutely mad from boredom."

Sybil smiled as she brought her glass to her lips. "I don't know, that doesn't sound all that unpleasant to me, Lady Belcourt. Sitting outside and reading like that…I can think of nothing better to pass the hours, provided one has the right book."

Lady Belcourt gave Sybil a smile not entirely unlike the one that Mary had given her while they were getting ready, once more treating her like she was much younger than her sixteen years. "I suppose you're right. Do you like to read?"

"Indeed I do," Sybil said eagerly, hoping they had stumbled upon a topic that would keep the conversation going long enough to make her grandmother happy. Perhaps they could even coax her father into the conversation as well, at least for a while. Sybil was as opposed to her grandmother's actions as Robert no doubt was himself, but there was no need to take it out on poor Lady Belcourt. "In fact, at the moment I'm reading Louisa May Alcott's _Little Women._ It's an American novel, have you ever read it?"

Lady Belcourt laughed, a clear, bell-like sound that seemed to fill the room. Edith almost smiled at the sound until she saw Sybil's face fall, wondering what on earth she could have said that Clara had found so amusing. "Oh, yes, years ago. I'm afraid I couldn't stand it, though. I found it so dreadfully dull…"

"That was my mother's favorite book," Sybil said darkly, looking down at her plate. She felt as if any affection she might have had for Clara Belcourt had faded immediately. Clara, to her credit, seemed to realize her mistake as she felt the eyes of all of the Crawleys on her, and she blushed crimson and took a hasty sip of wine. "Forgive me," she said softly, not looking any of them in the eye. "I…I did not mean to offend…"

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Mary's eyes met Robert's across the room, begging him to say something. He cleared his throat and tried to smile over at Lady Belcourt, who looked as if she wanted to melt into the floor. He couldn't help but feel pity for the poor girl, who had simply come along at Violet's invitation hoping to get better acquainted with him and his daughters. It was through no fault of her won that they had been less-than-welcoming, and although that little jibe against Cora had stung him nearly as much as it had Sybil, he knew it had been entirely unintentional. "There's no harm done, Lady Belcourt," he said softly, making the girl look up at him. She really was no more than a child, only six years older than Mary—what had his mother been thinking?

_You know exactly what she was thinking_, he told himself stubbornly. _She was thinking that you've already refused to consider everyone else._

He smiled at the young lady again and inquired about her time living in Italy and France with her aunt, telling her that he was certain his daughters would be interested in the stories she had to tell. Mary, eager to play hostess as she felt was her duty, piped up with her own questions, and soon the dinner party was more or less saved although a note of awkwardness still hung in the air. Sybil remained morose throughout the rest of the meal, looking darkly up at Clara and only speaking when she had no other choice. When they had finished, the ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee and conversation. Robert joined them for a while, stealing glances every so often at the woman seated amongst his family. She seemed much more comfortable now, smiling and talking at ease with the girls. Robert almost smiled at the sight, although he couldn't shake the feeling that this was somehow wrong. Clara should be here as a friend to the girls, not as their mother. It wasn't right, given her youth and her inexperience—such a match, although advantageous from his mother's point of view, would only prove unfair to both her and his daughters. Try as she might, Violet was never going to find a woman who could live up to his expectations. Such a woman did not exist. The only woman he could ever see sitting beside him at dinner each night, falling asleep next to, countess of his house and mother to his children…was Cora.

He had known it all along, since the moment he had lost her, but still the realization was like a shock of cold water to the face. He stood up abruptly, making the table beside him rattle and the women turn to look at him in alarm. "I'm terribly sorry," he said absently. "I'm…I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit under the weather. You'll have to excuse me…Lady Belcourt, forgive me. It's been lovely to meet you, and I hope we can see you again. Please, feel free to remain here as long as you like—don't end such a pleasant evening on my account. Please, Mama, girls, excuse me…"

With that he turned and fled to the library, all but slamming the door behind him. He walked to his desk and poured himself a glass of brandy, all the strength seeming to leave him as he collapsed in a chair. He covered his face with his hand and tried to will the tears away, but it was useless. They came anyway.

Some time later, when Robert had composed himself, he heard a brisk rapping at the door that he recognized immediately as his mother's cane against the wood. He sighed heavily. He had known that this was inevitable the moment he had escaped the drawing room, but he had done it anyway. Now it was time to face the consequences of his actions. "Come in, Mama," he called gently, setting his brandy down on the table. _You know how she gets when she's like this. It's best to just get it over with…_

In an instant Violet had burst in, her face a mask of annoyance. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" she demanded. "The embarrassment that you have caused us here tonight? I've just seen Lady Belcourt off practically in tears, poor thing—if the Bellasis family ever speaks to us again it will be a miracle!"

"Now now, Mama, I don't think it's as bad as all that," Robert began, but Violet cut him off. "How could you have been so selfish, Robert, so foolish? What were you thinking? The lot of you, treating her as if she were no more welcome in this house than—than…" Unable to think of anything suitable to say, she promptly changed the subject. "I'm ashamed of you, Robert. I thought I'd raised you better than that."

"Mama, please," Robert said, standing up. "I didn't mean to offend Lady Belcourt, I promise. It came as a shock, that's all, just a bit more than I could handle. Of course, I don't think I need to remind you that this all could have been avoided if you'd thought to inform me of your matchmaking plans before she arrived."

"What, so you could refuse her before you'd even had a chance to meet her?" Violet countered. "I did not tell you of my plans because I knew what would happen if I did." Her pale blue eyes flashed in anger. "Robert, I have done my best with you since Cora died, but this endless mourning of her has got to stop. It's been ten years, more than enough time to grieve her loss.

"Don't," Robert said darkly, "talk to me about grief."

His mother continued as if he had not said a word. "You should have remarried years ago, Robert, don't you see that? The girls needed a mother long ago." She sighed, her voice softening a bit. "I know better than anyone what it feels like to lose a spouse. I know the pain you've been feeling every day for the last ten years, Robert. Trust me, I do. But Robert, this problem of yours has gone on for long enough—"

"And you think _Clara Belcourt_ is the solution?" Robert demanded. "For God's sakes, Mama, she's twenty-six years old. You really think I would marry a woman who's six years older than my _daughter?_"

"And why not?" Violet asked. "What's wrong with her? She's attractive, kind, from _two_ prestigious, well-respected families…what more could you ask for?" When he did not answer, she sighed irritably. "Robert, be sensible. What sort of an example are you setting for your daughters? How can you ever expect to get them properly settled if you are not settled yourself?"

Robert had to fight to keep himself from rolling his eyes. "I hardly think proving to the girls the importance of marrying for the right reasons is setting a bad example. Or do you want them to end up with fortune-hunters who could care less about who they are aside from their beauty and their money?"

Violet scoffed. "You condemn fortune-hunters, yet have you forgotten the circumstances under which you and Cora married? It was a match of convenience. Love came later. Perhaps it can again for you and Clara Belcourt?" Robert looked away, and Violet sighed. "You are not the only one hurt by Cora's death," she said quietly. "We all miss her terribly. But this grieving has gone on long enough, Robert. It's time to move on."

"What, like you did?" Robert asked, and his mother's eyes flashed again. He knew he had hurt her by bringing up his father in such a way, but he could not take back his words. "You want me to replace the love of my life, Mama—do you even realizing what you're asking?" His voice had risen, but he seemed powerless to reign in his temper. "I cannot—I _will_ not insult Cora's memory in that way. I'd rather live the rest of my life alone than…than…than _give her up_ like that!"

The silence that followed his comment seemed to last forever until finally, Violet straightened up. Without so much as a nod to her son, she turned and strode out of the room, her head held high and her cane gently clicking against the floor. The moment she opened the door she found all three girls assembled before it, jumping back from where they had so clearly been eavesdropping. Edith's gaze fell to the floor, and tears glittered in Mary's brown eyes. Sybil looked past her grandmother to where Robert stood, something almost like pride written across her face.

Violet stood and kissed each of them briskly, whispering her goodbyes. Robert was extended no such courtesy. He knew how this would go. His mother would ignore him pointedly for several days before coming around finally, no doubt with some new plan up her sleeve to marry one of them off. He made no move to say goodbye to her, nor did he call out when she disappeared down the hall, no doubt searching for Carson to give the order to have the car brought around. The unspoken goodbye hung like a stormcloud in the hallway as he turned to his daughters. "It's late," he said, his voice hard and emotionless as stone. "You should get to bed."

He brushed past them, eager to retreat to his own bedroom and put this day behind him at last. The girls exchanged a frantic look as they watched him go, but it was Mary who raised her voice. "Papa," she called out, begging him for an explanation. "Wait—"

"_Now,"_ was Robert's only response.

**Author's Note: A bit of an angsty chapter! I hope you guys enjoyed it, even if it was a bit difficult to write near the end, especially Robert and Violet's fight. What did you think of Lady Belcourt? I'm finding it interesting that Sybil is emerging more and more as the narrator of this story, even though I meant it to be an ensemble piece—maybe that can change in later chapters. Next chapter we come to the sinking of the Titanic and the beginning of the show! I hope you're excited! Once again, thanks so much to my wonderful readers/reviewers—I could not do this without you! **


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note: Hello, my dear readers! Fear not, I haven't forgotten you and this story entirely. I've just been caught up with another fic of mine, as well as some real-life stuff that's making me busy, but I do promise I'll try to stay more on top of things in the future!**_

_**This chapter deals with the immediate aftermath of the telegram announcing Patrick Crawley's death. Once again it's more focused on Sybil, but you get an insight into Robert and Mary's thoughts as well and the next chapter will explore Edith's reaction. Several aspects of the "engagement" of Mary and Patrick are, you'll find, slightly AU from the show…you'll see! Thank you to all of you who've stuck with this story even through the slight hiatus, and I hope you enjoy!**_

* * *

The telegram shook in Robert's hands as he stared down at it, reading the words over and over even though by now they had been forever ingrained into his memory. He sat in his library with a glass of brandy in front of him untouched, although he had very little memory of how he got there—nor did he have any memory of pouring the glass. His legs had turned to water beneath him the moment the telegram had been pressed into his hand, and he had fled the breakfast room before his two younger girls—Mary, like her mother before her, had gotten into the habit of taking breakfast in bed as she was now technically the lady of the house—even had the chance to ask him what was the matter. They had watched him slit the envelope open, knowing just by the look of it that it bore bad news even before he'd had the chance to read a single word. It was eerily like the way that he had known, even before Doctor Clarkson had gotten the chance to speak to him, that his beloved Cora had been taken from him all those years ago. Now, just as he had that fateful day, Robert Crawley was left staring at the wreckage that had once been his life and wondering how he was ever going to pick up the pieces this time.

He looked at that fatal slip of paper again, his breath catching as he read the printed words once more, as if somehow reading them again for the tenth time or the twentieth or the ten thousandth time would somehow change the outcome. He already knew that it wouldn't.

_James and Patrick Crawley listed as passengers on RMS Titanic STOP_

_No record of their survival STOP_

_Missing—presumed dead_

_STOP_

"This cannot be," he whispered.

His cousin and his son, heir presumptive and heir apparent, had disappeared from their lives with one fell swoop. They had not even received word that James and Patrick would be traveling on the_ Titanic _before news of this latest crushing blow had reached them. In some ways, it didn't even seem real, as if at any moment Robert could expect to open his eyes and find that the events of this morning had been simply a dream. But then, would that make Cora's death a dream as well? Wouldn't it be perfect if the past decade were nothing more than a horribly vivid nightmare? He would awake to find Cora still dozing by his side, her chest gently rising and falling with each breath as she snored lightly. They would awake and take breakfast with the children—he would, of course ,succeed in coaxing Cora out of bed and into joining breakfast with the rest of them—and Robert would enjoy every moment, savoring it and never wanting it to end because the next thing he knew the three little girls before him would be women with minds and troubles of their own, and his worries about them and their future would be just beginning—

Robert was startled out of his reverie by a light knock at the door. He quickly swiped his hand across his eyes to make sure he was presentable—if he had shed any tears in his shock, they were long gone by now—and cleared his throat, wondering whether it would be servant or family waiting to see to him on the other side of that door. "Come in," he called, his voice slightly subdued.

He needn't have wondered who it was after all. The sweet face and concerned eyes that he saw poking out from behind the door were his Sybil's. "I came to see if you were all right," she said, her voice soft and slightly bewildered as if she had been frightened of what she might find on the other side of the library door. The library had always been Robert's refuge, both in times of joy and times of sorrow. It was here he hid away from the world with his books, and here where he had holed himself up for days after Cora's death, unable to face anyone until his mother had forced his hand. When he had finally emerged, it was to the nursery that he had gone first, seeking comfort in the presence and gentle, innocent embraces of his girls. Now the tables had turned, and Sybil had come to him. She tried to smile as she crossed the threshold, part of her still hoping that despite the way her father had abruptly excused himself from breakfast—not an entirely uncommon occurrence, for when grief struck him he often did the same—that the news in the telegram would somehow be all right. "Only you left so quickly and didn't say a word, and I was worried…"

"You always worry about me, don't you?" Robert said, interrupting her affectionately.

"I believe all three of us do, in our own way."

"Your mother was just the same." Robert sighed, his eyes growing far away as he gestured for her to come inside. "Shut the door. I have to tell you something."

She closed the door carefully and came to perch on the settee opposite him, her normally tranquil expression clouding. "It's about that dreadful telegram, isn't it?" she asked, her voice hard as if already steeling herself for bad news. It was enough to nearly break Robert's heart all over again. He sighed heavily, watching his youngest daughter's face. She met his gaze evenly, but he could see her fear in the slight downward pull of her mouth, the widening of her eyes as if already she was trying not to cry.

"I'm afraid it is, my dear," he said quietly. "It…it appears that the Astors and Lady Rothfuss—and Lady Belcourt's relatives—weren't the only passengers on board the _Titanic_ that we…were acquainted with." Those blue eyes that reminded him so much of Cora's widened, and he suddenly hated himself for having to break the news to her like this. Better to tell Mary first and let her tell the others, for she would no doubt be better equipped to handle their emotions than he was. But Sybil was already here before him, and he had no other choice. "My dear…what I'm going to tell you may come as a shock…"

* * *

"Sybil, darling, may I come in?" Mary called quietly through the closed door. When there was no response, she cracked it open and peered inside her sister's room, finding her curled up on her side on the bed staring into space. Her eyes were slightly red-rimmed from crying, but other than that she looked none the worse for wear. Mary closed the door behind her and came to sit on the edge of the bed as Sybil moved to make room for her. "Are you feeling all right?" she asked, her voice soft and gentle as if she were speaking to a child. Her youngest sister was still a child in so many ways, so sheltered and full of hope and the freedom that only a young girl could ever truly feel. Sometimes when Mary looked at Sybil she found herself wondering if, had their mother survived, the sister she knew would remain the same? Would she be different from the Sybil that she knew today, had she had the benefit of a mother's influence? Or would she be the same maddening girl Mary knew and loved? Mary liked to think so. But as she sat there with not a clue as to how to help her grieving sister, Mary found herself missing their mother so much she almost couldn't breathe. _Oh, Mama…what would you do if you were here? What would you say to comfort her—and Edith too? She won't even let me near her…what can I possibly say to them? Oh, Mama, I wish you were here…_

"Do you need me to ring for anything for you?" she asked after a moment. Sybil sniffled and shook her head, sitting up beside Mary as she smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress. "I'm fine," Sybil said, her voice subdued but strong, without a hint of a quiver or tear. "Really. I'm fine. It just…it doesn't feel real, does it?"

"It never does," Mary said, taking hold of her sister's hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Not at first, anyway."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, taking comfort merely in each other's company even as Mary searched desperately for something more to say. Sybil didn't seem willing to speak to her, but Mary knew her sister well enough that talking helped her cope with her sadness, working through problems with her words before she truly had to face them. She just had to get her to start.

"How's the book coming along?" Mary asked, nodding to the bedside table where their mother's book lay, a frayed ribbon sticking out from between the pages to mark Sybil's place. A faint smile crossed Mary's face for the first time all day, remembering the many hours she herself had spent with that book when she was about twelve. "Are you liking it so far, darling? It was Mama's favorite, you know." She looked over at her little sister, expecting her to smile back in response.

Sybil, however, rolled her eyes and sighed. "It's all right," she said, her tone somewhat dejected. Mary raised an eyebrow at her, and Sybil sighed. "I'm stuck," she admitted, looking down at her lap. "I was really enjoying it at first, the way Jo is so take-charge and tries to be the man of the family while their father is off at war…there's a lot to admire in that. Her sister Beth is sweet and Meg is all right…I can't stand Amy."

Mary gave a tiny smile. "No one really can."

"But even with Amy, I was enjoying it. But…"

"But what?" Mary asked gently.

Sybil looked up at her sister, biting her lip as she tried to put together her response. "I was so proud of Jo for rejecting Laurie's proposal—she was exactly right, it never would have worked out between them, they're far too different and I feel like marriage would only ruin the beautiful friendship they had between the two of them. Jo would have had to change everything about who she was if she had married Laurie, don't you think? And I felt so glad that I wouldn't have to suffer through reading about Jo forsaking everything about who she was—yes, Laurie loves her, but would he have let her sit up writing for all hours of the night instead of going to parties? Would he have endured her crying over a character in a novel when she was supposed to be listening to him? He wouldn't have, no matter what he said. It would have driven him mad after a while, and they both would have been miserable. Marriage shouldn't be about changing who you are just to suit someone else. I know in my heart that Mama never did that, don't you think so?"

"No," Mary said quietly. "I can't imagine that she would have."

Sybil sighed, flopping down onto the bed as if she were a child again instead of her true sixteen years, nearly a woman grown. "I'm afraid Jo will have a change of heart and do everything she swore not to—accept Laurie and change everything about herself to suit him. And if that happens, I know I'm going to end up hating the book, and that's an insult to Mama's memory…not to mention it'll make me no better than that awful, snobbish Lady Belcourt…"

Ah, so that was it. Sybil was worried that if she disliked the book, it would put one more rift between her and the memories of their mother that she craved so badly. She was so desperate to feel some connection to Cora that if the book did not touch her as it had their mother, she would consider herself a failure as a daughter. The realization almost broke Mary's heart right there. She reached out and rubbed her sister's back soothingly, wishing she knew of some better way to comfort her than this. "Don't speak too poorly of Lady Belcourt," she said, surprising herself. "Don't you remember what she told us when she was here? Her cousins were aboard the _Titanic _as well. She may well have lost someone on board just like we have."

"She has _not_ lost what we've lost," Sybil said, her voice muffled by the pillows.

Mary had nothing to say to that. Sybil was right, of course. It didn't seem possible that one family could endure so much tragedy—first their mother, now Patrick. Despite what Edith might believe, Mary _was_ mourning their cousin, but in her own way. She had never been one to flaunt her grief, even after her mother's death. She would miss Patrick, as they all would, for she had been fond of her cousin, but she couldn't see the point of carrying on the way her sister was doing. Edith's wailing would not bring Patrick back, after all, any more than their tears after their mother's death had worked to return her to them. Nothing any of them could do would ever change what had happened, and more often than not the passage of time did nothing to soothe the wounds that grief could inflict. And so Mary chose to keep her grief to herself. Sybil, though…Sybil was different. She was not like Edith, so demonstrative in her grief that Mary was certain that her tears would soon shake the very stones on which Downton stood. Nor was Sybil like Mary and their father and even, in certain circumstances, Violet, keeping the tears locked away for so long that they would finally burst like a dam, either in despair or, more likely in Mary's case, anger—but only in private. No, Sybil was comfortable enough with her emotions to see them not as a weakness as Mary did but instead as a strength, but she would never let them get the better of her the way Edith seemed to have done. In all things, Sybil was open-hearted and at ease with her emotions, looking out for the others but never forgetting that sometimes she was the one who was in need of a shoulder to cry on or a hand to hold. It was one of the many things that made Sybil the most like their mother out of the three of them.

There was another pause, and Sybil's breath caught in her throat. "He was my friend," she whispered, her façade of normalcy falling away, her eyes filling with tears that quickly fell and dampened the fabric of the bedclothes beneath her. "I…I don't want to forget Patrick like I've forgotten Mama."

Mary swore she felt her heart begin to fracture at Sybil's words. "Oh, darling!" she cried, pulling Sybil up and into her arms. She held her little sister against her and began to rock her gently back and forth, the way she remembered their mother doing when one of them had a nightmare. "You won't," she promised in Sybil's ear. "We won't let you. And you haven't forgotten Mama, my darling, I promise you…" She rested her head atop of Sybil's and sighed, wishing she had a better way to comfort her sister when she needed her. They sat there like that for some time, the only sounds that of Sybil's sniffling and the gentle rustle of fabric as Mary rubbed her back. Sybil cried until her eyes were red and aching, weeping quietly for the cousin she had lost and the mother she had hardly known, and praying that her sister wouldn't catch on to the fact that the one she grieved more for was not the one fresh in her mind.

_What would Mama say if she were here? _Sybil wondered, unaware that the same thoughts had been running through Mary's head ever since Robert had called her in to deliver the news. _Would she have the answers? Or would anybody?_

"How's Edith doing?" Sybil asked after a while, when she had finally calmed herself down. The handkerchief that Mary had passed her was very nearly soaked through, and Sybil found herself playing idly with the sodden fabric. Mary pressed her lips together for a moment as she thought, wondering if she should tell her sister the truth.

"To be perfectly honest with you, darling, I don't know," she admitted at last. "She's barricaded her door and won't let anyone in. She's been crying all afternoon…every time I go to check on her she shrieks at me to leave her alone. I feel like she's blaming me for this somehow, because she keeps saying that I never truly loved Patrick, that I'll never understand how this feels…" Mary pinched the bridge of her nose against the headache that she could feel beginning to form just behind her eyes. "She's distraught, which means she's not thinking clearly, which means we all of us have to suffer along with her. I came in here because I thought you would be more…receptive, I suppose. She'll come around eventually. She always does."

Sybil shifted then, taking her head off of Mary's shoulder. "How can you say that?" she said, slightly shocked at her sister's easy words. "Patrick is dead, Mary, more than likely. Edith loved him."

"As did we all."

She shook her head vehemently. "No, we didn't. Not in the same way…you know what she was hoping for all this time."

Mary scoffed, although not entirely unkindly. "What, that Papa would break off my engagement with Patrick and give it to Edith instead?"

"Mary, you make it sound like your engagement is nothing more than a hand-me-down, something to be shared and passed along the moment you don't want it anymore! Don't you realize that's a dreadful thing to say?"

"What of it? Not to speak ill of the dead, but I can say what I like now. Papa knew that neither Patrick nor I were eve truly enthusiastic about this marriage. He was going into it because of his duty to Downton, and I was because as eldest it is my right to be Countess of Grantham one day. It may have not been the most appealing of arrangements, but it made the most sense. I wouldn't have been unhappy with Patrick. I did care for him, after all, and he would have been kind to me and let me do as I wished. It would have been a suitable match in many ways." She sighed, so quietly Sybil almost thought she had imagined it. "I will miss him, Sybil. Don't think me cruel enough that I won't."

"But Edith did have reason to hope, didn't she? Papa knew neither of you loved each other, and he's always saying that he would never force any of us to marry someone we didn't have feelings for. Don't you think that, given time, perhaps he could have—"

"Do you honestly think that Granny would have allowed it? When she's had her heart set on me following in her and Mama's footsteps since she held me in her arms for the first time?" Mary cut her off, looking at Sybil with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Or that Edith, bless her foolish heart, would have been able to carry out the duties of a Countess? It was what everyone expected, Sybil. She was a fool to ever believe that things could be otherwise, even if…" She trailed off, biting her lip.

"Even if what?" Sybil pressed, unable to let the matter drop.

"Even if she was truly in love with him."

The conversation died down once more. Sybil still sat with Mary's arm around her waist, although she did not move to return the embrace. She felt too numb, not only from the shock of the deaths on board the Titanic but from the hard truths that Mary had just bestowed upon her. Although it was terrible to think about, she knew that her sister was right. Edith had always been the most romantic of the three, such a stark contrast from the pragmatic Mary, so convinced that she could follow in her parents footsteps and marry for convenience without a second thought, and the easygoing Sybil, who had never gone out actively looking for love but instead was content in the knowledge that if there truly was someone out there waiting for her, she would meet him in due course. Edith had been the one who had dreamt of a prince on a white horse coming to sweep her off her feet, and her heart had always carried a torch for Patrick, hoping that he would be her prince. Even if by some twist of fate he had managed to survive the _Titanic's_ watery grave, Edith surely would have been disappointed. Any illusions the three of them may have had about fairy tales coming true had vanished the day they had buried Cora. Patrick Crawley may have been a prince, but his hand was never meant for Edith's.

And now he was gone.

"What would Mama say?" Sybil asked suddenly. "I've been wondering all day. What would she say to us? Would she have anything to say at all?"

Sybil didn't notice the surprise in Mary's eyes at the news that Sybil had been asking herself the very same questions that she had. She thought for a moment, recalling her mother's face and voice into her memory as she tried to come up with an answer that Sybil would accept. "Well, first of all, she should say that we should never feel ashamed of crying when we feel sad or lonely or hurt. I remember her telling you that once when we found you lost in the gardens after you got separated from us and the nanny, bawling your little eyes out. You were three."

Sybil frowned. "I don't remember that."

"Do you remember begging Mrs. Patmore for peppermint ice cream afterwards, and sitting in mama's lap while you watched her make it?"

Sybil gave a watery smile, her first since she had entered the library earlier that day. "I do, actually. We only ever got ice cream on special occasions, and peppermint was my favorite."

"Mama's as well. And…she would also say that no matter how bleak things look today, somehow or another they always look better in the morning. I used to give her such grief for telling me that, and she would always say that more often than not, it was true. And do you know what? Most of the time, she was right."

"So things really will seem better in the morning?"

Mary smiled and kissed the top of her sister's head lightly. "Yes, darling. I believe they will."

"I hope you're right," Sybil whispered, relaxing into Mary's embrace. "But…we should go and check on Edith, make sure she's all right. The two of us, together. She can't turn both of us away, although she may very well try. I…I don't want to lose her to her grief over Patrick like we nearly lost Papa."

Her words startled Mary somewhat, surprised that Sybil felt that Edith's attachment to Patrick could be anywhere near as strong as Robert's ongoing devotion to Cora. Robert loved her so deeply even in death that even the mere mention of remarrying was enough to flare his temper. Somehow, Mary could not see Edith throwing away all her other prospects in order to mourn their cousin all her life. Even she was not that dedicated—nor that naïve. But still, she knew that in some ways, Sybil was correct. Edith could not be left to deal with her grief on her own, or it would take its toll on her just as it had on their father. Although it would no doubt prove to be difficult—part of Mary dreaded it already—the two of them were going to have to reach out to her.

"You're right, Sybil. Perhaps she'll listen to reason from you more than she will from me."

Neither of them made any move yet to get up, and there was one more question on the tip of Sybil's tongue, begging to be set loose although part of her dreaded the answer. "What…what happens now?" she asked hesitantly. "What's going to become of us?"

In truth, Mary had been wondering the same thing. "They'll find another heir, I suppose, some stuffy distant relation who stands to inherit everything even though he has no claim to it but blood. I expect this whole process will begin again…" _At least Mama knew Patrick. She liked him. Now I have to see her fortune, the legacy she and Papa helped build together, go into the hands of a total stranger…_

"But we have no other male cousins…"

"None that were as closely related as James and Patrick, no. None that we're aware of."

"But what if there aren't any? What if there isn't an heir to be found?"

Mary sighed, shaking her head. When she spoke, it was with a wisdom beyond her years, a weariness that the dress of the day had imposed upon her. "Oh, Sybil," she said sadly. "There's always an heir."


End file.
